The Ruler & The Killer, Baby
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: "I'm going to kill you, you know," he says in a low, dangerous voice. "If I don't kill you first." She replies, ice cold. Cato hates her, he wants her, and he especially wants her dead. Cato/Katniss, dark AU. For the Girl on Fire ficathon.


**Disclaimer:** You don't talk, you don't say nothin' ok? And by that I mean that I own zilch, kids.

**A/n:** Oh, this went way long and is dark – dark for my usual writing, anyway. I've never written anything quite like this before! Ever since I first heard that Kid Cudi song on the soundtrack though, it has been absolutely _screaming_ Cato/Katniss at me, and combined with this prompt, the plot bunnies finally spilled out. This is rated **a strong PG-13** for some language, mature content and general, er, Cato.

**Prompt:** _cato/katniss; Dark AU, "Broken looks good on you."_ (For JD_Pendergast)

* * *

**The Ruler & The Killer, Baby**

When Cato first lays eyes on the girl from 12, he doesn't think much of her. She looks scrawny and underfed to him, which is no surprise since she's coming from the poorest district. Maybe she'll get some sympathy votes for volunteering for her sister like that, but little else.

Cato smirks and cracks his knuckles. Aside from the mountain from 11, and perhaps Clove, he's certain he has virtually no competition. The Games are his – _this_ Game, is _his_.

* * *

Seeing her in person in the training center does nothing to sway his opinion. She's insignificant – perhaps agile, possibly hiding any strength or real abilities that she might have, but it doesn't matter. He knows she'll be one of the first to go, no question.

He likes the idea of ending her with his own two hands or the weapon they'll be holding.

* * *

The problem with this assessment – of her being weak and useless – however, is that over the next few days, though truthfully she does nothing particularly outstanding, there's just _something_ about her. Cato can't put his finger on it but it bugs him. She's got something. Something that no one else has, and he wants to know what it is.

In a moment of frustration, he lets this slip to Clove one night after dinner while she's sharpening her little collection of knives from home.

She snorts. "You've got the hots for her, don't you?"

He laughs, the idea too absurd. "Like hell."

"You can't stop staring at her during training."

"Because she _has_ something – don't you see it?"

She shrugs. "Nothing important. She'll be gone the first day."

* * *

Then she scores an 11.

He's still being congratulated for his score by his prep team and mentors, even by Clove, who is eyeing him with a hint of desire, and he's just taking a drink of punch when they show 12's score. Cato splutters and punch sprays down his front.

"An _eleven?_" he shouts, swears loudly, and rounds on the others in the room as if they've personally had something to do with it. "What did she do – would she could _possibly_ have done to get that?"

No one has a satisfactory answer and he can feel fire – white hot and consuming – rising inside of him. He throws his glass at the wall where it shatters into a thousand glistening pieces.

_No one beats me. No one. This is _my _Game. _He doesn't care what she's done, what she has that he doesn't. She is the number one target now, and he's going to take her down no matter what.

Cato approaches the large screen slowly as Caesar and Claudius finish up talking about the scores. He narrows his eyes at the small headshot of Everdeen.

_You're mine._

* * *

It's late evening after the interviews and Cato is feeling restless. He shouldn't be worried about anything, least of all his fellow tributes, but he can't help it. The fact that Everdeen, from the freaking _coal _district, has scored higher than him is a fact that won't stop eating at him. After pacing his room for a good half an hour trying to deduce what she could have done (she's obviously not strong enough, and has barely touched the weapons in the training center, so what was it?), he heads out into the bright hallways for a walk.

He hates her. He hates that her entrance in the chariot is all that anyone is talking about. What the hell is so special about some fake flames? If her costume had been on fire with _real_ flames – now _that_ would've been impressive.

He hates that smile she had pasted on in her interview, how frilly and insipid she seemed, and how cold and aloof she seems in the training room. It's too contradictory and he can't get a read on her, can't figure out her strategy (or even if she has one). He has a solid sense of the other tributes – how threatening they are, which ones he'll be going straight to for allies, which ones he can kill or manipulate or control or beat. He has no sense of Everdeen and he _hates_ that. It makes him feel unbalanced, in the dark.

He wants to kill her even more.

After a couple hours of aimless wandering, he's still restless and now exceedingly bored with the limited space he's circled, so he heads outside. There are scores of Capitol people celebrating, hysterically excited for the Games. He grins at the sight, gets his picture taken with a dozen or so squealing women (or least, he's fairly certain most of them are women – with all the makeup, extreme clothes and surgical alterations, it can get very difficult to determine a person's gender here), and signs a number of autographs. He puffs out his chest and brags about how he's going to win, how the rest of the tributes are no competition.

"What about Katniss Everdeen?" asks one eager fan, draped in lime green, yellow hair reaching for the sky.

He cocks his head, smirking and arrogant. "Who?"

They giggle and fawn, adoring the tough-guy act. Inside he's burning – _what about Katniss? What _about _her?_ He stays for a few more minutes before he feels like he might lash out if he hears one more moron talk about that _effing_ Everdeen.

Back inside, he can't contain himself and smashes a vase on the nearest wall (he doesn't bother with the pieces littering the carpet - it's not the first and it won't be the last) and finds he needs to get away again. He's not ready to go back to his room, going outside means more fans. He heads to the main floor where he finds the night guard who suggests the roof but warns him that he can't jump off. Security measures are in place to prevent it.

Cato laughs. "Why would _I_ jump?"

* * *

He feels calmer on the roof and maybe it's the cool air. He's not pacing anymore and Cato is almost ready to head back down and go to sleep when she comes out onto the roof to join him.

Everdeen starts when she sees him and for a moment seems to debate leaving or not, then chooses to simply go to the edge and look out at the Capitol, ignoring him.

"You can't jump," he says.

She doesn't look at him. "I wasn't planning to."

"Really? Why not?" he approaches slowly and can see her tense. This makes him smile. "I hope you realize you have no chance of winning."

She faces him now, glaring. "I already beat you, didn't I? What did you get, like a seven?"

The smile drops from his features instantly and he can feel anger welling up inside him, coiling like a spring. "A ten." He snaps. "What'd you do to get that 11? Fuck a Gamemaker?"

"Is that what you did?" she fires back.

Cato's hands curl into fists and he's inches from her now. He would love nothing more than to snap her neck right now and get her out of his way. She doesn't shrink from his presence, however, which makes him pause. He's taller than her and far more muscular; he knows how threatening he can be because he was literally taught to be so. Everdeen lifts her chin up just a bit, defiant, knowing he can't do anything, not really. Not without incurring punishment and penalties and who knows what else.

Then he sees it in her eyes, the thing that has been bothering and itching at him like poison ivy. The "girl on fire" isn't just a silly nickname the Capitol came up with for her. She has a fire in her eyes, a _spirit _– she's a fighter, a survivor, and she's not going down easy (or maybe at all). An entirely different emotion is rumbling in his chest now and he tries to ignore it.

"I'm going to kill you, you know," he says in a low, dangerous voice.

"If I don't kill you first." She replies, ice cold.

He doesn't know where the impulse comes from, but suddenly he wants to kiss her senseless. He wants to taste that fire, _feel _it, touch it. _He wants it for himself_. He wants that indescribable thing that makes her compelling and threatening and got her a damn _11_.

Instead he straightens, flexes his hands, leans close, bares his teeth and snarls, "See you in the arena."

* * *

In the arena, after she flees the bloodbath at the Cornucopia and he's gathered his sheep – alliance – he gives strict instructions: 12 is _his. _If anyone sees her or corners her, she will be _his_ kill, no exceptions. When Glimmer asks what it is with him and her, he shrugs, tracing his thumb along the edge of his new blade.

"I hate her."

* * *

They've got her treed and it's Cato's turn to keep watch. He stokes the glowing coals from their fire and glances up to her shadow nestled in the branches.

"You have to come down eventually, 12," he calls up to her.

"Bite me." She retorts.

Cato laughs and it sounds like a bark. Then he says, "If I get the chance."

* * *

"Attention tributes, there has been a rule change."

Cato looks up from the fruit he's munching on and Clove pauses in her knife sharpening.

"Any two tributes will be allowed to win the Games! The last two standing will _both_ be crowned victors. Good luck!"

The tributes from 2 turn and grin at each other.

"I guess I won't have to kill you after all," she says. Moments later they rejoin Marvel and Loverboy and keep hunting for Everdeen (and the other remaining tributes).

* * *

After he figures out Loverboy was protecting Everdeen the whole time, Cato doesn't hesitate and lashes out with his sword. Loverboy is quick to jump away but not quick enough as the sword connects with his leg, jarring and sharp, cutting deep. He cries out and stumbles back.

To his credit, Cato thinks, Loverboy puts up a pretty good fight. But he's not much of a match for him, and it's over in minutes. The cannon goes off as Cato is cleaning his sword in the grass.

* * *

He's still pissed about the tracker jacker incident and now _extremely_ pissed about the food incident. He thought the plan to protect their stash was a good one, but now that everything is a smoldering heap of garbage, and the boy from 3 is dead at his feet, he can only see just how stupid it was. He can't believe they put everything in one singular spot, and he knows foraging for food is probably the one thing in the world he's actually not good at.

"What do we do?" asks Clove, sounding uncharacteristically small and scared in that moment.

"We find her." He growls, trying and failing to cover just how furious he is. "_Now_. And cut her the hell up."

* * *

He doesn't have time to be properly upset about Clove after Thresh, the giant from 11, kills her. He has to momentarily stop focusing on Everdeen – an action that feels almost foreign when she is the _one_ person he absolutely _needs_ to kill in this arena. Every other tribute has simply been a minor roadblock, a vague obstacle. With the rule change, he was certain that he and Clove would be the last two. Thresh would be a challenge, sure, but if they double-teamed him? Clove is – was – virtually unstoppable with those knives.

He doesn't know what happened and how Thresh got her while they were setting their trap for Everdeen, and he doesn't have time to worry about it. Thresh is going to pay for taking Clove, and for messing up his plans.

* * *

There's only three of them left (himself, the girl from 5, and Everdeen – he hates she's made it this far). The Game – _his _Game – is coming to an end. She's hunting him too, and when they come upon one another in the woods, he doesn't give her chance to use that bow and arrow and charges forward. She fires off an arrow and another and he cuts the first one out of his way, the second slashes past his shoulder and though he dodges it, her aim is too good and leaves a slice of blood in its wake (_ah, so that's how she got the 11_).

Cato thinks she's only good long range, so when he gets close he thinks he's won, and once again has completely underestimated her. She drops to the ground to avoid the _whoosh_ of his sword and she nearly sweeps his legs out from under him. As he stumbles and attempts to stab downwards, she's back up and sending a fist to his face and an arrow stabbing like a knife into his ribs. He jabs out blindly and manages to slash her shoulder with the tip of his blade before they topple to the ground and they lose their weapons.

There's a confusing blur of fists, kicks and holds, both landing blows and dodging them, getting pinned and breaking free, neither able to hold the upper hand very long. At some point he manages to break her bow but she chucks his sword more than fifteen feet away, and then they're back to trading hits. Blood is running down the side of his face, her lips are split and bleeding, her face bruised and scratched. He should be better at this, he knows, but going for days without more food than a pack of crackers has weakened him faster than he would've thought possible.

Then, he thinks, _What if she was one of the two?_

Cato throws her away from him hard and scrambles back, putting a little distance between them. She's less dangerous now, injured, bow broken, arrows scattered out of reach in the dirt. They're both panting and wary, somehow silently agreeing to take a break even though neither should be giving one.

And he wonders again about taking her with him to the final two. What if they killed the girl from 5 together? What if they were the last two standing, the two victors leaving the arena? What if he could be the boy on fire? Match her and her passion, intensity, spirit?

Cato's never been a big believer in the school of thought that says to truly win you must beat the best, but he supposes he can see the merit in the idea now. Beating Everdeen has fueled him the entire Game and how much more satisfying would it be to win _now_?

Except, on the other hand, she is the first person in his life who he feels is a worthy competitor (admittedly, Clove came close). An opponent who unaccountably can match him, though she shouldn't be able to. He finds himself wondering what her life has been like, how she got to this point, why she seems to be so strong. He doesn't know why he wants to know, why he cares, and figures he just wants to know _how in the hell_ she has come this far. How, despite all the variables, she has come to be on par with _him_.

She's surveying him warily, tense, ready to fight back should he make the slightest movement. He can see the fire burning bright in her and once again has the overwhelming urge to _take _it – feel it, touch it, _taste _it. _He wants it – wants her_. He sees how they are so different and so alike and he can't stop the intense waves of (blood)lust pounding through him.

He brings his hands up as slow as possible until his palms are up by his shoulders. She reaches for the knife buried in her coat that she hadn't been able to get when they fought before without giving him an opening to kill her.

"No tricks," he says, trying a tone that sounds calm and genuine (one he's not sure he's ever had cause to use before now). "I was just thinking…"

"Don't strain yourself," she snaps and he ignores the jab but can't help smirking a little.

"What if we were the final two?"

It's probably the last thing she expected to hear him say if the look on her face is anything to go by. She quickly covers and is back to being cool and suspicious.

"What if I just kill you now?"

He takes a few steps towards her, deliberate but gradual, hands still up. "What if you did?"

"I'd be in the final two. I'd win. Me and Foxface."

Cato chuckles. "Foxface. That's good. Suits her."

Everdeen raises the knife a little, gripping it tight, still understandably cagey.

"I mean it, 12." He says, eyes locked with hers, burning like hers. "I've never met anyone like you. You should've been one of the worst and yet here you are. There's no guarantees you'll be able to take me down, but you absolutely can take 5 down – _especially_ if I help you."

"Why would you want to?" she asks and it's a sign of some strange, uneasy trust they shouldn't have that he's less than an arm's length from her and she hasn't stabbed him or cut his throat yet (or vice versa).

"Because… you're the _girl on fire. _And you're not the only one who will do anything to survive."

_And you're _mine. He adds silently, blood pulsing, senses in overdrive, more alive than he's ever felt in his life.

He doesn't give her a chance to respond and grabs her, pulling her close. Their lips crash together hard, painfully, right where hers have split and are bleeding. He relishes the taste of her blood in his mouth, the feeling of danger with her knife pressed to his abdomen. She resists for a moment and then pulls back, her eyes flashing and dark. She looks like a wild animal but something else is there too, and he's glad he's not the only one consumed with inexplicable lust.

She's lunges for him, kissing him back and he knows he's got her – they've got this. It's still his Game, but now he's allowing it to be hers too.

_The girl and boy on fire…_

5 won't know what hit her.

He's pulling her hair and she's scraping her nails across his neck and it's hard to tell if they're fighting or making out or somewhere in between – maybe both. (After all, isn't _everything_ – even good old fashioned hate sex – a competition?)

He moves his lips down her neck, biting, leaving marks as he goes. _Mine, mine, mine…_

"Wasn't sure you had this in you, 12," he says between breaths.

"Cato," she gasps, reaching under his shirt for the tie on his pants. "Don't talk."

He chuckles and captures her mouth again, biting that bleeding lip. He shoves her against the tree and works her matching khakis down and out of his way. She grits her teeth and tries not to cry out and the whole thing is as much a battle of wills as anything else between them. It's over in minutes and they hastily readjust themselves, their clothes, wipe away the sweat and ignore the shame that comes with knowing that was just televised to all of Panem.

He can tell she's still thinking about killing him anyways, and he'd being lying if he wasn't thinking the same thing.

Cato touches the deep bruise on her flushed cheek with his thumb. She winces a little, involuntarily. "You know, broken looks good on you."


End file.
